


Post-It

by korik



Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Coping, F/M, How Do I Tag, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-30 06:12:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6412216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/korik/pseuds/korik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're both a little broken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Post-It

He said nothing, made only scarce sounds, in the three months that she had seen him, taken care of him. More animal than man, he flinched at bright lights, fled from popcorn in the microwave, and wrinkled his nose at the foods she had brought for him from the local fast food places, the restaurants, until she discovered cooking food would bring him out of his hideaway spot in the closet, eyes like saucers, pupils wide.

She'd joked then, "Preservatives, am I right?" a moment after wondering why she had said it, the laugh crinkling her nose turning sour. 

He seemed to recall nothing of language, reacted to nothing she said except how she said it, fleeing when she spoke louder than a murmur. She still persisted from one day to the next with great care meant to remedy this, had to. Someone had to help him find a way to live, and to not peel one or the other arm from his body when he shook.

It was a surprise when, at a little around four in the morning, he broke his silent, personal rule of maintaining at least five feet of space between them, exhaustively whittled down from ten, his organic hand shivering from where he'd pushed, almost dropped, a bright sticky note onto the stomach of her t-shirt. He'd neatly padded around her bed, caught her off guard where she had taken to barricading herself while she studied, enclosed in comfort when surrounded closely by walls, though she always took care to cradle the overly long curtains around herself, keeping the bleach bone white from her gaze. He never came to her first.

On the yellow scrap was her name. It was hesitant, all squiggles, lines upon lines upon lines, as though he had been unable to fathom how he could write with boldness and not tear it to shreds with strength beyond him regardless of how long he marveled when he thought she was not looking.

The idea she had gotten from hearing about children learning to associate words and their shapes with the objects they accompanied, and, with a feverish enthusiasm, she had peppered the tiny apartment with all manner of words delicately scripted by her worn fingers in the two languages he was sure to have the most awareness of. Surely.

She kept the tears from rolling down her cheeks as she pointed down at the name, still upon the bed from where it had fluttered, delicate as a leaf in late autumn. It was in Russian. "Natalia. My name."

He grunted, a swaying shadow with pale eyes gleaming at her from beneath the shag of his unkempt hair. For a moment, the heaviness of the shade of his eyes lessened, and the mouth on his face spasmed, chewed edges cracking with his silent echo, silent affirmation. Natalia.


End file.
